Archive of Our Own

There were a few poor decisions that led to their current situation. Most of which, Miya Atsumu would insist, were not his fault.

They lost, alright? The Adlers wiped the fuckin’ floor with the Jackals’ collective faces. Kageyama Tobio handed Atsumu his own ass on a platter again. The point was, Atsumu could hardly be blamed for being upset. He was a professional athlete, used to losing now and again, but that didn’t lessen the sting of defeat. It went with the territory. It was hardly Atsumu’s choice to lose.

Nor was it his idea to hit up the Tokyo bar scene on their one night in the big city. Bokuto was excited to return to his old stomping grounds, so he offered to take the team to the best club in town to soothe their collective disappointment. It was not Atsumu’s fault the team answer was, for once, a unanimous yes.

Atsumu wasn’t even the one who suggested they break out the tequila. That was all Inunaki, his grin wide and wild and his teeth pointed like a demon’s in the club’s low lights. He brought over a brand-new bottle and a tray of shot glasses, and it was bottom’s up, up, up, over and over, until the room was warm and spinning and Atsumu hardly tasted the bitter alcohol on his tongue anymore and Sakusa’s eyes looked like liquid onyx, his curls like spilled ink.

Yet everything came crashing down in only a moment. It went like this:

Atsumu leaned against the bar, elbows braced against the wood so that his shirt pulled just right across his chest. It was, he admitted, a little obscene and a lot obvious. Everyone in the club had to notice his pecs straining against the material.

(Everyone but Sakusa. He never noticed.)

Yes, it went like this:

Sakusa said – said, not asked: “Miya. Where is Hinata.”

Atsumu rolled his eyes. “Dancin’ on the table wit’ Inunaki.”

“No, he’s not.”

“‘Course he is, Omi-Omi, I just saw ‘im.”

Hot, powerful fingers grasped the material of his shirt. They yanked him around so he was face-to-face with Sakusa, who had forgone his mask for the moment to enjoy his drink. Which meant Atsumu had a front-row-seat to his pretty mouth set in an annoyed, displeased line.

“No,” Sakusa said, “He’s not.”

Atsumu looked around the room. No flash of orange hair on top of the centermost table; no lightning-flash smile in line for the bathroom; no stocky, muscular frame elbowing his way to the bar.

Atsumu twisted his head to meet Sakusa’s eye.

“Oh, fuck.”

If this were a movie, that was the moment there would be some kind of record-scratch, freeze-frame moment. Atsumu would have a voice-over: Yeah, that’s me, Miya Atsumu, startin’ setter of three-time-winnin’ V. League championship team MSBY Black Jackals and #4-ranked hottest player (numbers 1, 2, and 3 don’t matter) accordin’ to Volleyball Monthly. I bet you’re wonderin’ how I found myself in this situation, huh?

And then there would be a flashback to a few hours before all hell broke loose. It would look something like this:

“Congratulations, Tsum-Tsum!” Bokuto yelled, charging into the locker room in a flurry of noise and glossy, flapping magazine pages. He threw the Volleyball Monthly down on the bench with a loud slap. “Fourth-hottest league one player! MSBY represent!”

Miya, who had no fewer than fifteen texts from Osamu, Suna, and Aran about this exact subject in the past hour, just smirked. “Aw, thanks, Bokkun.”

“Why’d you just talk to ‘Tsumu? He’s not even the highest ranked on the team. Didn’t Sakusa get second again this year?” Inunaki asked snidely. Atsumu leapt forward to snatch up the stupid magazine, but Hinata beat him to it. He grinned eagerly as he sat cross-legged on the bench and started reading.

“Number one!” Hinata announced, loud enough it echoed off the tiled walls. Bokuto and Inunaki banged against the lockers in a drumroll. “Schweiden Adlers Opposite Hitter Ushijima Wakatoshi!”

“Oh, come on,” Atsumu whined, because honestly that was the worst part of this whole thing. “He’s got the personality of a freakin’ tree!”

“People like trees, Miya,” Sakusa piped up by way of greeting them all as he entered the locker room, as well. He left the second half of his sentence – unlike you – loudly unspoken. Atsumu stuck his tongue out at him.

“The man of the hour!” Bokuto shouted over Inunaki and Tomas’s wolf-whistles.

“In second place,” Hinata read, pointing to Sakusa, “MSBY’s own Outside Hitter, Sakusa Kiyoomi!”

A general cheer erupted in the locker room. Sakusa rolled his eyes, looking annoyed and flustered and annoyed about being flustered.

“Those things are stupid,” Sakusa muttered. He yanked his shirt over his head so he could change into his uniform. “They don’t mean anything.”

“Means they got eyes, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu drawled. And so did he, for that matter. Atsumu took the time to appreciate that simple pleasure now, eyes dipping leisurely over the miles of Sakusa’s porcelain skin, from elegant, high cheekbones, to delicate collarbones, to broad shoulders, to slim hips, to solid abs, to the V-line of his hips, to the dark, well-maintained trail of hair below his belly button. That perfect canvas was speckled over with various moles: in addition to the two above his eyebrow, there was one just below his right collarbone, another on his left pectoral, three in a row on his right ribs. Atsumu could tolerate not ranking first, if it meant he lost to someone who looked like Sakusa.

Inunaki kicked the back of Atsumu’s knee, interrupting his ogling and sending him crashing down to the bench.

“Ya little fuckin’ shit, I oughta –”

“Miya, stop starting fights,” Meian called from one row over, where he and Barnes were trying to get their last moments of peace before the game.

“I didn’t even start it!”

“I don’t care. I’m ending it before Foster comes in.”

Inunaki waggled his eyebrows at Atsumu. He wound up his arm to flick him on the forehead, but Sakusa’s elbow gently jostling his side made him pause.

“Inunaki, stop kicking. I need my setter,” Sakusa said. Just the phrase I need my setter said in that flat tone was enough to make Atsumu’s stupid gooey heart flutter. “Miya, just. Stop.”

He yanked his jersey over his head. It ruffled his curls so they stood on end, and it physically pained Atsumu to turn away.

“Number three!” Hinata announced, completely missing or ignoring the sexual tension around him like he sat in the eye of a hurricane. “Tachibana Red Falcon’s Outside Hitter Ojiro Aran!”

“Good choice, good choice,” Bokuto agreed, golf-clapping like there was any dignity to a bunch of twenty-something athletes yelling over a magazine’s publicized thirst list.

“Number four, the Jackals ride again!” Hinata read. “Miya Atsumu! And they picked a good one, too!”

Hinata turned the magazine around so that they could see the reference photo in question. It was a photo of Miya just after a serve, touching down from his jump. One arm behind him for balance, the other curving gracefully to the floor from the serve’s follow-through. His bangs fell over across his sweat-shiny forehead, his eyes were half-lidded, and the tip of his tongue poked through his lips from its spot bitten between his teeth. From the self-satisfied, smug look on his face, it was definitely a service ace, and he was definitely making that come-hither face at Sakusa.

Sakusa seemed to think the same thing, grumbling, “They could have at least picked one with his tongue in his mouth.”

Atsumu met his gaze. Sakusa had rearranged his curls back into something resembling order. Atsumu sent him a smirk, the tip of his tongue poking into the plushness of his lower lip, and winked. Sakusa practically whipped around in a one-eighty with a disgruntled grunt. He was so easy to rile up. And so cute when Atsumu was the one doing it.

“Number five, MSBY’s Outside Hitter Bokuto Koutarou!” Hinata continued. “Ooh, that’s a good one of you, Bokkun!”

“Keiji thought so, too,” Bokuto grinned. Which explained the purplish marks that showed when he twisted his body, Atsumu figured – one below his collar, one on his hip just above his waistband, one or two on his thighs before his knee sleeves covered them. Yeah, Akaashi was a real fan, Atsumu thought with a snicker.

“Number six, Jackals’s Opposite Hitter Hinata Shouyou!” Inunaki read. Hinata blushed with just about every inch of his compact little body. Bokuto whooped loudly with Atsumu. Inunaki cackled. “Damn, the Jackals are all over this. We’re a hot buncha bastards, aren’t we?”

“Ya know it, Inunaki,” Atsumu grinned. He glanced at the clock on the wall and realized he ought to start getting dressed, as well. He yanked his shirt over his head as Bokuto read:

“Number seven: Adler’s Setter Kageyama Tobio!” He cried. “Hey, hey, hey, Hinata, that means you won this one, right? You two compete over everything, right? You’re worse than ‘Tsumu and Sakusa like that!”

“Fuck off, Bokkun,” Atsumu said without heat.

“Yeah,” Hinata said. His tone was different from before – a little calmer, more thoughtful. Atsumu leaned over his shoulder to see a picture of Kageyama in profile, back perfectly arched in a setting position with the ball hovering over his head. He was in his scarlet Team Japan uniform in this picture.

Damn goody-goody, Atsumu thought fondly. He may have been a competitive bastard, but he’d always liked Kageyama, even when they were younger and Kageyama was an (even more) awkward duck and Atsumu’s personality traits started and ended with asshole. Can’t wait to wipe the floor with his face.

An elbow jab against his lower back, right over his kidney, made him yelp. He whirled around, glaring at Sakusa. “Wha’ was that for, Omi-Omi?”

“You were making that face you make when you’re thinking something stupid or mean,” Sakusa said. His eyes were fixated on the locker beside Atsumu’s head. “More importantly, put on your shirt.”

“Aw, am I distractin’ ya?” Atsumu asked. Flirting shamelessly with Omi was his favorite pastime, right up there with hanging out with Omi, setting for Omi, and staring at Omi.

“No,” Sakusa said bluntly. “Our pre-game meeting is in a few minutes, and I need you to help me stretch.”

There were so many ways Atsumu wanted to reply to that, but he knew when to tease and when to buckle down and focus. They weren’t nineteen anymore; they needed to be careful when any injury could be their last. Career-wise, that is.

Atsumu reached into his duffle bag to pump out a dollop of the lemon-scented hand sanitizer he kept in there for moments like this, because he knew Sakusa didn’t actually mind skin-to-skin contact much so long as he knew the hands touching him were clean. The action always made Sakusa’s shoulders drop slightly from their customary position halfway up his ears.

They were the only two in the athletic room beside the locker room proper. They could see the rest of the team through the wall, but they could not fully hear them through the floor-to-ceiling glass, and nor could the team hear them. Sakusa pulled a clean mat off the wall, tossed it to Atsumu, and then pulled his own mat down to start stretching.

Atsumu and Sakusa’s friendship was an… unexpected one, he supposed. They’d attended multiple national training camps together as youths, but they were never close or particularly friendly back then. Atsumu certainly respected his skills, and he spent a sexuality-questioning amount of time admiring his round, perpetually-pouting face, but they never really talked outside of quick strategizing sessions before matches.

When they graduated, Atsumu never expected to see him again. Sakusa went to college, and Atsumu signed on to the MSBY Black Jackals a month after he left high school. Atsumu put the pretty spiker with the weird wrists and dark, clever eyes out of his mind and let him fade in his life’s rearview mirror.

Until four years later, when the Jackals held open tryouts, and standing among the prospective players was a familiar loud, friendly redhead and a statuesque former Rookie of the Year and two-time collegiate MVP with eyes like obsidian.

Okay. So maybe Atsumu was never as indifferent to Sakusa as he wanted to pretend. That was neither here nor there.

As the seasons passed, and people joined and left the team, Atsumu and Sakusa only grew closer. They were some of the few in their former Monster Generation who never really jumped or moved around. Well, there was Bokuto, but Bokuto had to sit out a season when he needed surgery on his shoulder. He’d also grown into a surprisingly well-rounded individual, with a husband and a house and a dog waiting for him after practice and tournaments. Inunaki played in Italy with Kageyama for a season or two a few years ago. And Hinata just tended to bounce, first to Brazil, then to the Jackals, then to São Paulo, and now he finally returned just this season.

Atsumu and Sakusa really just had the Jackals. And, funnily enough, that meant they just had each other. You couldn’t train, play, and compete with a man day in and day out for five years and not eventually become friends. Sharp comments became sharp banter, which eventually faded into simply banter. Somewhere along the way, volleyball footage nights became movie nights, and they went from monthly dinners to weekly to most nights a week.

Somewhere along the way, prickly, particular Sakusa Kiyoomi became Atsumu’s best friend.

Somewhere along the way, smarmy, surprisingly sensitive Atsumu fell head-over-feet for him.

“Do you think he’ll be alright?” Sakusa asked Atsumu. They were alone, but he spoke quietly anyway. He had a particular routine he went through before and after every game, starting with stretching his wrists and arms.

“Who?” Atsumu asked. He started on stretching his legs. Leaning forward and pressing his forehead to his knee kept him from studying the lean muscles in Sakusa’s forearms.

“Hinata,” Sakusa said.

“Yeah?” Atsumu asked, confused. “‘Course, Omi-Omi. We’ve played with him for years. We beat the Adlers before, and we’ll do it again.”

Sakusa sent him that look that Atsumu knew meant he was thinking, you’re an idiot, Miya.

“You’re an idiot, Miya.”

See? Nailed it.

Atsumu opened his mouth to agree and ask if he could elaborate on what he’d done to make him think that this time, but before he could speak, Sakusa asked, “Can you help me?”

Atsumu snapped his mouth shut and nodded. Friends helped friends stretch during quiet moments before games, after all. He’d long since accepted that he was never going to get to touch Sakusa the way he wanted to. But this was enough. He’d get over him, eventually.

(Sure, Atsumu had been thinking that for about two years now. He didn’t let it keep him from living his life. Really.)

Under his palms, Sakusa’s jersey material was cool from the room’s air conditioning. His muscles were solid and steady. He pushed, and Sakusa went, and went, and went.

“Ya ever think about doublin’ as one of those inflatable tube men outside car dealerships, Omi?” Atsumu asked. He always tried to come up with a new joke during these quiet moments. He felt Sakusa’s muscles flex slightly as he huffed out a soft laugh into his mat.

“Eight out of ten, Miya, that was good,” he said. “How long have you been sitting on that one?”

Almost as long as I’ve been wantin’ to sit on you, Atsumu wanted to say but obviously did not. “A little bit. I got a list of ‘em on my phone.”

Another laugh. “You do not. I refuse to believe you can plan that far ahead.”

Atsumu pressed down a little harder on Sakusa’s shoulders. Sakusa made a soft sound, a mix between a gasp and a grunt. He did not sound pained, however, so Atsumu did not let up. “Bold words comin’ from a man bent in half. Bet I could snap ya in two like this.”

“I bet I could flip you over my back and through the window.”

Atsumu snickered. He was about to tell Sakusa he’d love to see him try when there was a loud knocking sound as Inunaki banged on the glass to get their attention.

“Hey, can you two wrap up…” He waved a hand to indicate whatever this is and went on, “And get to the meeting room? Time for the pre-game meeting.”

“Yeah, jus’ a sec,” Atsumu called. He carefully let up on Sakusa so he could rise up to a sitting position. They each rose on their own, wiped down their mats, and walked into the main locker room to meet Inunaki.

“Hey,” Inunaki said, stopping in place and frowning. “Where’s Hinata?”

“He’s not in the meeting room?” Atsumu asked. He walked into their strategizing room, eyes skimming over the rest of the team as he took his spot on his usual bench. Bokuto, Meian, Barnes – both in their last season – Inunaki, Tomas. Coach Foster stood at the front of the room, arms folded over his chest as he tapped his foot. But no Hinata. Sakusa settled in beside him, prim and proper next to Atsumu’s casual slouch.

“Maybe he’s takin’ a shit,” Atsumu said. The door opened and Hinata sprinted into the room, practically diving onto the bench next to Bokuto.

“Sorry, sorry!” He cried. His cheeks were red. “I, ah, I had a thing!”

Atsumu smirked at Sakusa. Inunaki and Sakusa exchanged looks.

“You’re an idiot, Miya,” they chorused, and they turned to face forward. Atsumu scowled petulantly at Sakusa’s profile and had to tamp down the way his chest tightened at the small smirk on Sakusa’s lips.

“Well, now that we’re all present and accounted for,” Coach Foster said, his gaze sweeping over his problem children and then back to the board, “We can get started. So, as you all saw from the footage taken from the Adlers versus Falcons game, Kageyama and Ushijima have been working on a modified version of the zero-tempo quick…”

Hinata’s shoulders stiffened slightly out of the corner of Atsumu’s eye. When he looked, though, Hinata appeared as casual and eager for a match as ever. Atsumu tacked it up to him being excited for their match against their greatest rivals. Atsumu had glanced at the ticket sales before heading down to the arena for their last pre-game practice that day and saw that they were nearly sold out. It seemed like half of Tokyo was going to be here tonight.

The meeting was business as usual. The Jackals had played together for years, and this was not the first time they were facing off against this particular team’s rotation. That didn’t make the anticipation in the air any less electric. In fact, it felt more tense than ever, this Monster Generation Face-Off. Especially after their magnificent Olympic performances together last summer.

The same apprehension that swirled in the locker room felt like a tornado or a hurricane as they stepped into the glaring stadium lights. The crowd was so loud that it actually was quiet for a few moments, Atsumu’s ears ringing as they adjusted to the brightness and noise. The stands were a sea of black-and-gold and white-and-blue jerseys, handmade signs, and plushies. Somewhere in the back, Atsumu could see the familiar signage of Onigiri Miya, and an even more familiar silhouette looking down at him. It lifted a middle finger in good luck, because Osamu knew that Atsumu would find him in any crowd, be it a school classroom, a packed sports stadium, or at the end of the world.

Atsumu could hardly flip off his brother from the court, so instead he blew a smug kiss in his brother’s direction. On one side, Bokuto carried Hinata on his shoulders, both waving eagerly to the stadium. On his other, Sakusa looked vaguely constipated the way he did when he was nervous.

So Atsumu asked, “Did ya forget ta poop, too, Omi-Omi?”

Sakusa whipped his head around to send a withering glare. But his shoulders loosened, and he flashed Atsumu a small but brilliant smile. It was brighter than the lights, more dizzying than the hundreds of cameras flashing at them.

The teams shook hands at the net, and this was usually where Atsumu’s head tended to space out.

Or rather – he hyper-focused on the court, cataloging every movement, every gasped breath, every spike, set, block, dive. He remembered his games in flashes, sporadic moments that stood out through the adrenaline and the thrill of competition.

Bokuto shouting hey, hey, hey to the entire silent stadium as he took to the air to make his opening serve. In his excitement, he hit it so hard it sailed right over the court and landed outside the line. His entire body drooped, from knees to hair spikes, and Atsumu needed to shout don’t mind, Bokkun! to get his head back in the game.

Inunaki diving for the floor and almost glitching through it to stop Ushijima’s spike before it hit the ground. His nose made a squeaking sound as he slid over the waxy surface. It was a wonder it didn’t break.

Tomas showing the world that leg day was never for naught as he dropped into a perfect, beautiful squat to receive Hoshiumi’s spike. Atsumu thought of the millions of thirst tweets about being choked out by Tomas’s thighs and mused, yeah, I see it now.

Hinata when their teams switched sides between sets, passing close enough to Kageyama that their shoulders brushed. Their eye contact was so intense, so all-encompassing, Atsumu briefly wondered if the two were about to dive at each other right there on the court. Whether to kill each other or rip their clothes off, Atsumu wasn’t sure. He put the odds at fifty-fifty. The rivals said nothing as they passed.

Sakusa as he leapt to the skylights, his legs kicked up behind him, his arm raised, his jersey sweat-slicked to every muscle and line of his torso. His skin glowed, his curls frizzing from sweat and exertion. His hand slammed the ball down to the court, the spike so quick and brutal that the volleyball hit the ground and ricocheted into the air before his feet even hit the ground.

Sakusa caught Atsumu’s eye, his cheeks glowing, chest heaving, his smile thrilled and feral.

Another, he mouthed to Atsumu, his voice lost to the screaming crowd. Atsumu would give him anything and everything he wanted.

But as it turned out, that didn’t really matter. For the first time in years, the MSBY Black Jackals lost to the Schweiden Adlers. Hoshiumi spiked one of Kageyama’s tosses, and Inunaki dove for it, but he just didn’t make it in time. The volleyball slammed down just beyond his fingertips and ricocheted off at an angle. It rolled off the court like it wanted to hit the showers as desperately as Atsumu did.

The worst part was there was no one to blame, really. Years ago, Atsumu took any and all losses as a personal failing that he internalized to the point of depression or anxiety. But now he was older, more experienced, and marginally wiser, so he knew that losing was just something that happened in a game where only one team could win. They played their best, but the Adlers played better. It was as simple as that. Atsumu nodded and shook hands and wished his opponents a good game, and he absolutely meant it, but fuck. This sucked.

But Inunaki and Tomas had an idea, they announced as their libero sat astride their middle blocker’s shoulders. Inunaki used the rolled up Volleyball Monthly as a makeshift megaphone and announced, “Attention, losers! We are going to the bars to get fucked up in response to our miserable loss! If you, too, would like to drown your sorrows in booze in the greatest city in the whole entire world–”

“Booo,” small-town boys Atsumu and Hinata chorused.

“Shut up,” Sakusa hissed.

“–Meet outside in ten minutes! Bokuto has suggested a place across the city!”

“It’s very clean, Sakusa!” Bokuto chirped. “And only a few stops away!”

“Oh my God,” Sakusa mumbled. He carefully toweled his hair dry, using the plush white folds to hide how he was blushing from the attention and consideration. Fuck, he was so cute.

“Are ya joinin’ us, Omi-Omi?” Atsumu asked. He wiggled into a shirt that had shrunk in the wash, or Osamu had switched out for a smaller size, because fuck Osamu.

Sakusa did not reply immediately. He thoughtfully ran his curl product through his hair, meticulously twisting his fingers through each and every wave until his hair was smooth and shiny and Atsumu half-forgot he was waiting for an answer in the first place.

“Sure,” Sakusa finally decided. He carefully slipped his favorite mask – black, plain but for its gold stitching, and Atsumu’s chest warmed because he got him that – over his mouth and nose. He looked back at Atsumu. “For one drink.”

“Aw, jus’ the one?” Atsumu simpered, following after Sakusa. “Not gonna bring out Two-Drink Omi tonight?”

“Which one is that again?” Tomas asked. His Japanese had improved tenfold after the past several years of bouncing around the V-1 League.

“Silly Sakusa,” Inunaki said, pulling up his phone and tabbing over to the notepad app. “He actually laughs at our jokes.”

“You took notes on me?” Sakusa demanded, scandalized.

“I thought that was Three-Drink Sakusa?” Bokuto asked.

“No, Three-Drink Sakusa is Hot Sakusa,” Inunaki said. “Miya came up with it–”

“I certainly fuckin’ did not, ya lyin’–”

“When do we get to Honest Sakusa?” Barnes asked. “That’s my favorite.”

“That’s Mean Sakusa,” Atsumu insisted, not that anyone heard him or cared.

“Five Drinks,” Inunaki read off. “And Miya, he’s only mean to you because you’re an idiot.”

Meanwhile, Sakusa had his face buried in his hands. “I hate this. I hate all of you. I’m going back to the hotel.”

“And deprivin’ us of Chill Omi-Omi?” Atsumu asked. Sakusa glared at him.

“And which one is that?”

“Ya pull that stick outta yer ass, fer one.”

“One drink,” Inunaki read.

“Screw you.” But Atsumu could see the way the outer corners of his eyes crinkled, so he knew Sakusa was actually smiling behind his mask. “Fine. I said one drink, so I’ll come. For one. Just one.”

Atsumu was not one to look a gift horse in the mouth, so he just grinned widely. “Sounds good, Omi-Omi. Don’t worry, we’ll get ya home nice and early.”

Tomas muttered something in English that sounded vaguely like Jesus Christ. At that moment, Coach Foster joined them outside.

“Barnes tells me you’re all getting dinner and drinks,” Foster said. “That’s a good team bonding idea after a loss. Good thinking, Inunaki and Tomas.”

Inunaki beamed innocently and flipped Atsumu off behind his back. Atsumu imagined punting his punk little ass back to Osaka.

“Well, as you know, we have an early drive tomorrow,” Coach Foster went on. “The bus leaves from the hotel at five o’clock sharp. Be on that bus, because if you’re not, we’re not waiting for you. If you’re left behind, you’ll be responsible for getting your own ride back and for extra conditioning.”

“Yes, Coach,” the Jackals chorused obediently. Coach Foster looked over them all once more before he nodded in approval.

“Excellent playing tonight, gentlemen,” he said. “I know how much losses can sting. But we are still early enough in the season to turn this around. Don’t let this set the tone for the rest of the season. Have fun tonight, and please, do not end up in a tabloid.”

“Yeah, Atsumu,” Hinata snickered. Atsumu elbowed him in the side.

“Yeah, Hinata,” Inunaki muttered. Hinata kicked him in the knee.

“None of you have any legs to stand on,” Sakusa, the team’s perfect beautiful angel who never caused their PR team problems because he never left his damn apartment, intoned. Atsumu wanted to pull at his mask so it snapped against his nose.

(Just because Atsumu was kind of infatuated/enamored/obsessed with his teammate and best friend did not mean that he was ever going to stop ribbing him every chance he got.)

Bokuto crowded them all into a train heading uptown. They got off after about half an hour, emerging in a neon-bright section of Tokyo that Atsumu had never seen before. But Sakusa, his porcelain skin taking on the mingling shades of pink and blue as they passed bars and clubs, nodded in approval. Atsumu ducked his chin and smiled faintly. He was naturally more inclined to find cheer and excitement in bustling nightlife, but Sakusa was much more difficult to please. If he seemed inclined to partake in their debauchery tonight, then Atsumu knew his own enjoyment of their evening was assured.

Bokuto took them to a multi-story club that sat front and center in this urban center. Duology was dimly lit like summer twilight, low purple lighting with pink and orange flashes illuminating the space. The Black Jackals made a beeline to the main bar on the center of the first floor. They called for drinks, shots, placing bets and playing drinking games. Talking shit and tossing compliments in every other sentence, and often at the same time. One shot became two, became three, and Atsumu watched as Sakusa went bright-eyed and smiling, and he unbuttoned the top two buttons of his button up with slow, fumbling fingers (fucking tease, he had to know what he was doing to Atsumu), and he left Atsumu choking on his cackles when he confessed to Inunaki that shaving his scruff made him look seventeen, and he allowed Bokuto to convince him to dance for a few songs (and wow, did that destroy him).

Maybe, if Atsumu wasn’t so enamored with watching Sakusa, he might have noticed when Hinata left.

But he didn’t. And now here they were.

The record scratched. Time started up again. Sakusa was still glaring at Atsumu as he said: “Oh, fuck.”

“How,” Sakusa demanded. “How?”

“How what, Omi-Omi?” Atsumu shot back.

“How could you lose him?” Sakusa hissed. Irritation put bright splotches of color on his cheeks. “Hinata is the loudest thing in every room and he has naturally orange hair–”

“He’s like four feet tall!” Atsumu yelled, throwing his hands into the air.

“You said he was dancing on a table! And he’s not four feet tall. He’s five-seven.”

Atsumu wanted to yell at him and also kiss him.

“Who do I look like, Kageyama?” Atsumu demanded. “I’m not his fuckin’ keeper. I wasn’t lookin’ fer him! Yer the one always on about bein’ responsible at these things!”

Sakusa sighed, running a hand through his humidity-frizzy curls. “Okay. Yelling at each other won’t accomplish anything. We just need to find him. He’s got to be around here somewhere. Come on.”

He slammed his shot glass onto the table and marched off through the crowd without another word. Sakusa seemed to assume that Atsumu would just follow him wherever he went forever, and he swore internally for being so fucking whipped for this tool, because obviously he just sighed and trailed after him.

It took them half an hour to make their way through the entire club. It was that big and that crowded. Atsumu ended up taking the lead so he could use his loud mouth and some well-placed “accidental” elbow jabs to clear a path through the throng. Sakusa slunk close behind him, his mask back on his face.

Unfortunately, half an hour was more than enough for them to determine that Hinata was nowhere in the establishment. He was not in any bathroom, waiting at any bar, dancing on any tables (or unconscious or injured underneath them). He was not swinging from the rafters or climbing the walls. He was not outside on any of the exterior balconies, catching his breath in the refreshingly cool air, nor was he ensconced in a stranger’s arms in the alleys beside the club.

Hinata was absolutely nowhere to be found, so Atsumu thought he was well within his rights to look at Sakusa and say, “We’re fucked.”

Sakusa’s face was half-hidden by his mask, but the small tic in the corner of his eye showed that he was pissed. “No. He’s fucked. Coach Foster told us not to do anything stupid.”

“Yeah, I know, I was there too, Omi-Omi,” Atsumu said. He stepped outside onto one of the upper-level balconies so he could call Hinata. Maybe he’d slipped out and gone for some late-night KFC. It wouldn’t be the first time.

“Hi, this is Hinata Shouyou! Sorry I’ve missed your call, I’m probably playing volleyball! Leave me your name and number and I’ll get back to you ASAP!” Hinata’s chirpy voicemail played. Atsumu swore, hung up, and called again. Maybe he just missed Atsumu’s call the first time. Maybe now he was pooping.

“Hi, this is Hinata Shouyou! Sorry I’ve missed your call–”

“Fuckin’ hell,” Atsumu hissed. This time he left a message, saying, “Dammit, Hinata, where’d ya go? If ya end up in a tabloid again Foster’ll have yer ass! Call me when ya get this!”

Meanwhile, Sakusa was frowning down at his phone. “He’s not answering his texts, either.”

“If he’s not answerin’ his calls, I doubt he’ll answer his texts, Omi,” Atsumu said dourly. Sakusa sent him a glare that told him he would not be taking out his worry-induced irritation out on him.

“Don’t be an ass.”

“Right, right.” Atsumu stepped closer and stood on his tiptoes to peer over Sakusa’s shoulder so he could read Sakusa’s outgoing texts.

Hinata, where are you?
Hinata.
Miya and I have looked all over Duology for you.
Which is disgusting, by the way.
You’re not answering any of his calls.
Nor are you reading your texts, apparently.
Hinata.
If you are getting these, please at least send a thumbs-up.
And turn on your fucking location.
Please.
Miya is starting to get worried.
Fine. I am also starting to get worried.
Check your PHONE, Hinata, I know your ringer is always on the loudest setting.
Hinata.
HINATA.

“Three shots in and ya still type with perfect grammar,” Atsumu said, not fond at all. He settled his chin into the dip between Sakusa’s neck and shoulder. “I hate ya.”

“I hate you, too.” Sakusa said this mildly, automatically. “And I’m a little further along than three.”

“Tha’ so?”

Sakusa looked up from his phone and opened his mouth to answer, but before he could speak, the door to the balcony opened and the noise machine known as Bokuto stomped through.

“Tsum-Tsum! Omi!” Sakusa twitched like he did whenever someone who was not Atsumu called him by that nickname. “What are you doing out here all alone? Are you–?”

He stopped short, his already-round eyes going even wider. In his drunken haze, he seemed to be making connections much faster than he ever did while sober. Atsumu’s insides shriveled up in panic at the notion of his crush-slash-undying-devotion to Sakusa somehow being accidentally revealed by a four-sheets-to-the-wind Bokuto, of all people, so Atsumu blurted out the much more pressing concern: “Hinata’s missin’.”

Bokuto’s mouth snapped shut like a trap. His eyes briefly went even wider. Then he squawked, “What?”

“We can’t find Hinata,” Sakusa said bluntly.

“He’s not here?” Bokuto asked, tilting his head. “I mean, he’s hard to miss because he’s so loud, and he’s got that hair and all – but he is pretty short–”

“That’s what I said!” Atsumu burst, pointing at Bokuto and sending Sakusa a look that declared I told you so!

“He’s five-seven,” Sakusa corrected him, because he always needed to get in the last word. But then he refocused back on the important issue here. “No, Bokuto, he’s not here.”

“Did you check the dance floor?” Bokuto asked. “Or the bars? He was on a table earlier, maybe he fell off? Or maybe he’s in the bathroom, I don’t think he pooped before the game–”

“We checked there!” Atsumu interrupted.

“Can we stop talking about Hinata’s bowel movements?” Sakusa snapped. “Yes, Bokuto, we looked through all of those places.”

“Have you tried calling him?” Bokuto asked.

“No,” Sakusa said like the sarcastic little bitch he was. “The next step was to start screaming off the patio and see if he answered.”

“Oh, okay!” Bokuto nodded like this made sense. “I’m glad I’m here, then!”

Atsumu already knew where this train wreck was derailing. “Wait, Bokkun–”

Bokuto stomped to the edge of the balcony, inhaled deeply, and cupped his hands over his mouth. “HINATAAAAAAA!”

Sakusa’s face went slack in that way it did when he was contemplating serious violence and/or just ending his suffering and driving for the mountains then and there. Atsumu hissed out another curse and grabbed the back of Bokuto’s tight little shirt to yank him back from the ledge before he tumbled over it.

“He wasn’t serious, Bokkun,” Atsumu said. Sakusa was still blowing up Hinata’s phone by presumably repeatedly texting his name, which left Atsumu saying, “He’s not answering his phone or texts.”

Bokuto blinked slowly. “He’s not?”

Atsumu shook his head. “No.”

“Did you leave a voicemail?”

Bokuto was very kind, and very talented at volleyball, and very beautiful, but he was just. So stupid sometimes. Atsumu could kind of understand why Akaashi felt the need to wreck him in body and soul three times a week.

“Yes, Bokkun,” Atsumu said seriously and with more patience than he’d ever used before. “I left a voicemail.”

Bokuto nodded back, just as sagely.

“Well then,” he decided. “The only thing to do is find him.”

Atsumu and Sakusa exchanged looks. “That’s what we’re tryin’ ta do.”

Bokuto nodded patiently. “I know! But he’s not here, and he’s not picking up his phone, so the only thing to do is to go look for him.”

Sakusa’s eyes widened. “You mean–”

Bokuto nodded. “Yep. Hinata’s not familiar with Tokyo. But we are. And we know Hinata.”

“The bus, though,” Atsumu said weakly. “It leaves at five. We’ve got…” he checked the time on his phone. It was half-past midnight. “Four and a half hours to find him, or Foster’ll skin us alive.”

Bokuto beamed, if possible, even wider, and planted his hands on his hips. “Then we’d better get going!”

Surprising absolutely no one, they ran into their first obstacle the literal exact second they left the club.

“I’m hungry,” Bokuto announced. Gold, glassy eyes peered around the crowded street. Considering it was Saturday in the middle of the city, the night life was bustling around them. Passerby cackled, laughed, cheered, and sang drinking songs as they elbowed their way through the crowd.

“We gotta find Shou-kun, Bokkun,” Atsumu pointed out.

“He’ll still be missing in ten minutes,” Bokuto replied. His gaze settled on a little take-out Korean barbeque restaurant across the street, and he started walking.

Atsumu turned to Sakusa for backup. This seemed like the kind of thing he would actually agree with for once. To his dismay, Sakusa was frowning thoughtfully up at the glowing neon sign.

“Omi-Omi,” Atsumu said gravely. “Ya can’t do this ta me.”

Sakusa frowned. “I can and I will. Feeding Bokuto will keep him happy and make him easier to deal with. It will also sober us up a little to get actual food in our systems. Also, Bokuto has a point – Hinata will still be gone in ten minutes when we finish our food.”

Arguably the worst part of this was that Sakusa made sense. “Dammit. Fine.”

“In any case, Bokuto has already decided we’re getting food, so unless we want two players missing tonight, we’d better follow him.” Without further ado, Sakusa stepped off the curb and followed their teammate. Atsumu allowed himself a three-second grace period of watching the breadth of Sakusa’s shoulders in his wine-red button-up (because he was a poncy prettyboy) and chased after.

There was a respectable crowd in line at the restaurant; half of the Saturday night partiers seemed to have the same idea they did. Atsumu looked around the room to make sure Hinata wasn’t among their number as they crept forward in line.

“What’re you getting, Sakusa?” Bokuto asked.

Sakusa frowned up at the electric screen in front of them. “I don’t know. I want the hot and sour and the chili lime flavor.”

“Then get both,” Atsumu suggested. He’d been out enough with Sakusa to know that once he was satisfied with a restaurant’s cleanliness standards he was quite the foodie. “Yer an athlete after a big game.”

“That’s too much food. I don’t want to waste any.”

“Then pick one.”

“I want both.” Sakusa turned to Atsumu. “You get the chili-lime, then.”

“So you can steal it? Instead of just getting ‘em both?” Atsumu asked. Bokuto stepped forward to place his order. Sakusa’s lower lip pursed slightly, his expression reminiscent of a pout. There was a little furrow between his brows. His cheeks were flushed prettily.

“Like you wouldn’t steal half of mine.”

Atsumu wasn’t sure which stage of the Omi-Omi Drunk Scale this was, but this one might just be his new favorite. He sighed internally, conceding that they’d both known his answer as soon as Sakusa asked.

When Atsumu stepped forward to order with Sakusa, it was for an order of the hot and sour chicken, the chili-lime chicken, and his own credit card in hand. Because he was a complete fucking pushover when it came to Sakusa Kiyoomi, apparently. As if there was a single person in the V-League (Sakusa himself excluded) who didn’t know that.

They received their food and stood outside to eat. Bokuto took two minutes to photograph his food at just the right angle to send to Akaashi.

“Food’s gettin’ cold, Bokkun,” Atsumu said. He stole one of Sakusa’s chicken pieces and half-heartedly dodged the equally halfhearted chopstick directed at his jugular.

“I want Keiji to feel like he’s here!” Bokuto insisted. He took another picture. “I love him.”

“We know, Bokuto,” Sakusa said. The hypocrite took one of Atsumu’s chicken strips like he hadn’t just attempted to end his life for doing the same thing not ten seconds ago.

“I miss him.”

“We know, Bokkun.” Atsumu took another bite of food before turning to Sakusa. “So. Where we startin’, Omi?”

Sakusa took a bite of his food. Chewed. Swallowed. Carefully dabbed at his spotless mouth with his napkin. “I don’t know this area.”

Hinata’s gonna die out there, Atsumu realized. “But. Ya grew up in Tokyo.”

“I wasn’t much for clubbing when I was sixteen and in high school.”

“Yeah, but ya know places, right?” Atsumu, who grew up in a city with a graduating class of maybe a hundred students, could name just about every shop in his town. These big-city kids would never make sense to him.

“I know what places are,” Sakusa snipped back. He took another one of Atsumu’s chicken pieces. Atsumu swiped one in return, and Sakusa glared at him.

“Well, first off, what do we know about Hinata?” Bokuto started.

“Too much,” Sakusa said dryly. Atsumu snickered but decided to answer seriously, because things were really funny now at a quarter past midnight, but they were going to rapidly get less so as they got closer and closer to five.

“I mean, he’s not from here,” Bokuto went on. “Does he have any friends in the area?”

“Kageyama?” Atsumu asked.

“The manager from his high school team,” Bokuto added.

“I think most of his friends are back in Miyagi,” Sakusa said. He finished his food, pulling his hand sanitizer out of his pocket for his post-eating clean. “Is there anyone here he’d want to see?”

“Kageyama?” Atsumu suggested. “He’s been in love with him for years, hasn’t he?”

“Not that he knows,” Sakusa scoffed.

Something about this exchange made Bokuto laugh out loud. When Atsumu and Sakusa sent him matching looks, he only stared back with wide eyes. “Oh. You’re serious.”

“Whaddaya mean–”

“Do either of you have Kageyama’s number?” Sakusa interrupted. “I don’t.”

“Nor do I,” Bokuto confessed. “Tsum-Tsum?”

“Nah,” Atsumu said. They’d all used some kind of Olympic Committee-sponsored app to communicate during the Olympics, because of branding or whatever, but he’d uninstalled it as soon as the games were over. People kept trying to hit him up for hookups or networking, and Atsumu wasn’t interested in either. He knew enough people, thanks, he’d told Sakusa in their shared hotel room from his own sad, twin-sized cardboard bed. Sakusa had just rolled his eyes in return, but he offered Atsumu some of the face mask he was doing that evening to relax before their next set of matches. “Never occurred to me to get his number.”

“Well, if Hinata is still clueless, I doubt he’s going to him,” Bokuto said. “There’s a bunch of other clubs around here. Maybe he went to one of those?”

“Has he replied to yer text?” Atsumu asked Sakusa.

“What text?”

We might die here, too, Atsumu thought before he said, “The wall of text ya sent him?”

“Oh,” Sakusa said. He dug into his pocket to look at his phone. “No.”

“Okay, then.” Atsumu wiped off his hands and mouth and sanitized his hands with his own little travel hand sanitizer. “Ya know what? Fine. There’s like three other clubs here. Let’s check ‘em all out. Not like Hinata’s hard to miss.”

The others agreed and rose to their feet. There was another club next door, so they decided to head there first. Atsumu missed its name as their little posse walked through the front doors, the room awash in gold and green neon lighting. It was significantly smaller than Duology, with one large dance floor and a single large bar along the back wall. Bokuto peeled off to investigate the dance floor as Atsumu led Sakusa along the wall to the bar. Atsumu studied the rest of the crowd at the bar as one of the tenders approached them.

“What’ll you have?” He asked Sakusa.

“An Old-Fashioned,” Sakusa replied without blinking.

“Omi!” Atsumu cried.

“And a Tequila Sunrise,” Sakusa added blandly. He slid the tender his card and a respectable cash tip before turning back to Atsumu. His curls brushed the nape of his neck above his collar. Atsumu’s eyes snapped up to his face again as he said, “What, Miya?”

“We are looking for Hinata.”

“I’m well aware,” Sakusa droned. “But we were standing at the bar, and we would be asked to leave if we didn’t order anything or dance. And…” The bartender returned in record time, sliding their glasses towards them across the shined wood. Sakusa turned his attention to the bartender. “We’re looking for a friend. Short, orange hair, loud. Have you seen him?”

The bartender frowned thoughtfully. “Naturally orange?”

“So he says.”

Atsumu snickered over his sip of his drink. Honest Omi really was his favorite.

“Maybe,” The bartender said. “How loud are we talking?”

“Loudest thing ya’ve ever heard,” Atsumu said at the same time Sakusa replied, “Too.”

“Don’t think so, then,” the bartender said with a shrug, handing Sakusa his card. “Sorry I couldn’t be more help, gentlemen.”

He left to complete the next order. Atsumu sighed and sipped his cocktail, because that had been a pretty good idea of Sakusa’s. Bartenders see everything, and by virtue of being at the bar, virtually everyone who goes to a club. If Hinata had been here, he definitely would have been at the bar, and because he was Hinata, the bartender definitely would have remembered him.

Strike one, Atsumu mourned as he took another sip.

“We’ll find him,” Sakusa said suddenly. Atsumu looked up to see that Sakusa was already looking back at him. There was an inscrutable expression on his face above his mask. In this light, his eyes were as dark as the two moles sitting parallel above his eyebrow.

“Ya worried?” Atsumu asked.

Sakusa thought about that for a few moments. “A little, because last I saw him, he was extremely inebriated. But this is also the man that went halfway around the world when he barely spoke the national language, so I trust that he’s taking care of himself. Not necessarily good care, mind you. But care.”

“That’s nice. I think he’s dead on the side of the road.”

Sakusa lowered his mask to drink his Old-Fashioned through the straw, because he would never be drunk enough to put his mouth on a restaurant glass in a million billion years. Atsumu caught the small smile on his lips, and it left him feeling like there was a small flame sitting in his chest.

“Hey, you got drinks without me!” Not for the first time, Bokuto came crashing into their moment with all the finesse and grace of a rhinoceros.

“Had to get the bartender’s attention somehow,” Atsumu stated, carefully angling himself away from Sakusa so he wasn’t so blatantly mooning over him. Bokuto just nodded like this made complete sense.

“That makes complete sense,” Bokuto said seriously. “But now you’re ahead of me, so–”

Before Atsumu or Sakusa could stop him, Bokuto grabbed one of the shot glasses the bartender was handing a group of clubbers, tossed it back without blinking, threw down an exorbitant amount of yen along with the empty glass, belched, and announced “next round’s on me!” before catching Atsumu with one arm and Sakusa’s sleeve with the other and dragging them outside.

Sakusa called an apology over their shoulder before meeting Atsumu’s gaze. There was still that tiny smile curling his lips and he rolled his eyes, more fond than he ever was in their more sober moments. Despite the situation, Atsumu found himself smiling back.

The next bar was, oddly enough, a tiki bar in the middle of downtown Tokyo. Fortunately, it was more akin to a restaurant than the past two clubs they explored. The servers all wore floral-print shirts, and Atsumu nodded to the hostess with a cheeky wink as their trio went directly to the bar.

“Now, considerin’ it’s late and we’re, once again, lookin’ fer Hinata, maybe we shouldn’t–” Atsumu started, but the bartender here approached them with a bright smile and a pop of her bubblegum.

“Hi! What can I get you gentlemen?”

“A Blue Lagoon,” Bokuto said instantly.

“Midori Sour, light ice,” Sakusa added. He once again handed his credit card to the bartender. Over his shoulder, he sent Atsumu a look that said speak now or forever hold your peace, and you better not whine about it. Atsumu would deny forever how that expression left him hot around the collar of his too-tight t-shirt.

“A Negroni, thanks,” Atsumu said, barely reining in his desire to throw his hands up in the air. He looked around the restaurant as they waited for their drinks, searching for that familiar shock of orange hair. His heart sunk when he realized he was nowhere to be seen.

Where are ya, Hinata? Atsumu wondered for the hundredth time. He slipped his phone from his back pocket to scan. Hinata had not replied to any of his messages, nor had he acknowledged Meian’s text announcing that the others were going back to the hotel to sleep. Their star opposite hitter remained a ghost in the wind.

Did something happen? How had Atsumu missed him leaving? Was it something someone said or did? Had a fan bothered him? Did the paparazzi follow them? Was he kidnapped?

Bokuto slung a heavy arm around his shoulders, jostling him out of his thoughts. His voice was quiet (read: normal volume, but reassuringly soft in his ear in the middle of the bar) as he said, “Hey, hey, hey, ‘Tsumu. We’ll find him.”

“I know,” Atsumu sighed. The bartender arrived to deposit their drinks in a neat line of neon-bright, colorful liquid and umbrellas. As she swiped Sakusa’s card with brisk, businesslike efficiency, he asked, “Have ya seen a short, drunk guy with orange hair come through? Sweet as can be, never shuts the hell up, definitely would have tipped well.”

“Sounds like a gem, but afraid not,” the bartender replied.

“Ya sure?” Atsumu pulled his phone from his back pocket and pulled up Hinata’s Instagram. “He looks like this.”

The bartender leaned over the bar to squint at the bright screen. She let out a low whistle. “Damn, I wish he’d come through. He’s cute as hell. Still a no, though.” Then she frowned, recognition dawning on her face. “Hang on – is that Hinata Shouyou? The volleyball player?”

“Thank you for your time,” Sakusa said quickly. He finished his drink – wow, he was downing those fast, Atsumu thought – and started making for the door. Bokuto put down the tip and waved, cheerfully promising to give the bar a shout-out on his Instagram as he chased them out. Atsumu and Bokuto drained their drinks to ice and dregs as they rushed out the door as quickly as they ran in.

“Damn, Omi-Omi, where’s the fire?” Atsumu asked.

“Out here somewhere,” Sakusa replied. He started marching to the third and final bar on their list, seeming to forget he still clutched Atsumu’s elbow. The alcohol was starting to catch up to Atsumu again now, his feet slow on the uptake and sending him stumbling into Sakusa’s side.

“Hinata oughta go missin’ more often,” Atsumu thought aloud, the nonexistent filter between his brain and his mouth turning off. “If it’s gonna get ya manhandlin’ me like this.”

Sakusa dropped his elbow like it’d burned his hand. The alcohol put a bright flush on his cheeks, but he didn’t shove Miya any farther away as they marched down the street. He shoved his hands in his pockets, broad shoulders and pointy elbows bumping Atsumu’s side. His chin ducked low.

“You’re an idiot, Miya.”

Atsumu swallowed a sickeningly fond smile and did not reply. Bokuto jogged up alongside them, yawning loudly into his hand and stretching his other arm over his head.

“Question.”

“Answer,” Atsumu and Sakusa chorused.

“Suppose Hinata’s not here, either,” Bokuto started. “Where do we look next? What do we do?”

“No answer,” Sakusa said. Atsumu snickered.

“Well, Bokkun, I guess all we can do is keep lookin’. There were some other cool places we passed comin’ in on the train, yeah?” Atsumu asked. “Maybe he went over there. Or maybe he went back to the hotel.”

“Why didn’t we check there before?!” Bokuto shouted, slapping the hand that was covering his mouth to his forehead. He started digging into his pocket for his phone to call the hotel.

“Hi, can I get a connection to room 3114?” Bokuto asked the weary front desk night staff. “I’m looking to see if my roommate got back. Yeah, the one with orange hair. Yeah, this is Bokuto. Yeah, I’ll… oh. Okay! Thanks! Have a great night, take care.”

He hung up a minute later. “They couldn’t be sure I was who I said I was, so they couldn’t connect me. Security and privacy reasons.”

“Great.” Atsumu was going to jump into traffic. At least their hotels took their security seriously. He sighed, mentally scratching that off of his internal list of options for finding Hinata. It was simultaneously worryingly short and overwhelmingly long. Sakusa knocked his shoulder against Atsumu’s again, and he was pretty sure it was on purpose. A warm glow that felt nothing like the alcohol blanket covering his shoulders settled in his chest.

The final bar was a dimly lit dive bar. At first glance, Atsumu feared it was the kind of dirty, beer-sticky place that would leave Sakusa bathing himself in sanitizer and waiting for him and Bokuto outside. But as he looked closer, he saw the low burgundy lamps were buffed to a golden, burnished shine, softly illuminating gorgeous bar booths upholstered in red velvet. The bar was significantly quieter than the previous two they visited. Only regulars sitting along the bar and in their usual booths occupied the space. It was the last place Atsumu imagined Hinata would choose to go, and a single glance around the small space was enough to tell him Hinata was not here.

Atsumu’s face fell, but he trudged over to the bar. The barkeep was an older man in his sixties and likely the owner, considering the comfort with which he moved behind the counter. He looked between Atsumu, Sakusa, and Bokuto’s weary faces and raised an eyebrow.

“Rough night?”

Atsumu nodded, resting his elbows on clean, shining wood. “Real rough. Lost a friend.”

“Ah, shit. So sorry for your loss,” the barkeep said. “Half off anything you want.”

“He means it literally, but thanks,” Sakusa said.

“Oh, a literal loss.” The barkeep nodded like this was normal. “Happens more often than you think around here.”

He started filling three tall glasses of water and passing them over the wood. “On the house. The alcohol is still full-price, though.”

“Damn,” Atsumu sighed. “Ah, well.” He handed the bartender his credit card. “I’ll take a whiskey, neat. You two gents want anythin’?”

“I’ll take the same,” Sakusa said.

“Me, three,” Bokuto agreed. He looked longingly at his phone as the bartender turned away. “I miss Keiji.”

“We know,” Atsumu and Sakusa said together. Bokuto’s lower lip stuck out.

“I love him.”

“We know.”

“I want to call him.”

“It’s two in the mornin’, Bokkun,” Atsumu said reasonably. “I think ‘Kaashi-kun’s gonna be asleep right now.”

“He’s not, he just texted me,” Bokuto said. “He has trouble sleeping when I’m not there. I’m gonna talk to him a little so he can sleep. I’ll be right back.”

He took his glass so he could step to a small back patio. Atsumu sighed, shaking his head and joining Sakusa at a back corner booth.

“Well, ain’t that sickenin’,” Atsumu joked to Sakusa as he slid into place. Sakusa tugged his mask down to sip his drink, smiling softly into the amber liquid.

“Don’t lie,” Sakusa said. “You love it.”

Atsumu chortled. “Maybe so.” He sipped his own drink, savoring the spice and alcohol burn over his tongue. He lay his head against the velvet backrest, thinking aloud with his alcohol-loosened tongue. “I’m just thinkin’. The late night calls, someone to share the days and nights wit’, someone to cheer and mourn with, someone to miss. It’d be nice to have for myself, is all I’m sayin’.”

Sakusa did not reply. Dark eyes like obsidian studied his profile with scorching intensity. Atsumu lowered his chin, looking across the table. “Ah, ignore me, Omi-Omi. ‘M just tired ‘n a little drunk. The night’s gettin’ to me.”

“You’re an idiot, Miya,” Sakusa said automatically. There was no bite to the words as he thoughtfully drummed his well-manicured nails against the glass. “I didn’t know you wanted any of that.”

“Did ya not?”

Sakusa shrugged, glaring down at the table. “Why would I? You never talk about it. You rarely date. I don’t remember a time since I joined the team that you were even in a serious relationship.”

Yeah, don’t think too hard about that, Omi-Omi, Atsumu thought with a low chuckle. Internally, he figured that made sense. Any longing for a relationship of the caliber Bokuto shared with Akaashi indelibly went hand-in-hand with thoughts about Sakusa. Atsumu knew he was hardly a gem like Sakusa or Hinata, but he wasn’t such a jerk that he would attempt to start a relationship with someone when he knew he wasn’t in a place to properly jump into it.

At last, he shrugged. “‘Course I do, Omi-Omi. It’s just gotta be the right person.”

He wanted to say, think too hard about that, Omi-Omi. Use that big college-boy brain and work out exactly what I’m too much of a coward to tell ya.

He wanted to say, it’s just gotta be you, Omi-Omi.

“How ‘bout you?” Atsumu asked. “Ya ever think about it? Chocolates, flowers, the whole nine yards?”

“We can’t have too much chocolate, Miya, we’re athletes. And I’m allergic to flowers.” Sakusa buried his nose into his drink as he took another long drink. He finished it and switched to water, which Atsumu figured was a good idea. Atsumu was brainstorming casual ways to exit this conversation and throw himself into the sea when Sakusa continued, “But yes. I have thought about it.”

“Have ya?” Atsumu asked casually, like he didn’t care one way or the other. Like he didn’t spend most of his nights wondering exactly this.

“Idiot,” Sakusa mumbled under his breath. “I just think it would be… nice, sometimes. Holding someone’s hand. Sharing space, hanging out. Getting Boba tea every weekend.”

Atsumu swallowed a too-large mouthful of his water, barely stopping himself from choking. Even as his stomach felt like it was full of firecrackers, his alcohol-sodden brain and tongue were too slow on the uptake. Half-formed thoughts and words tripped all over themselves as he wanted to blurt–

I’d love to hold yer hand, Omi-Omi, ya just gotta let me know it’s okay.

We spend so much time at each other’s apartments already, we might as well move in together – it’d save money, don’t ya think?

It’d be so easy. We already get Boba tea together every weekend.

Bokuto returned to their table, sitting down beside Atsumu. “Keiji’s insomnia is conquered! Thanks for the water, Tsum-Tsum.”

Atsumu shared a look with Sakusa. After a long moment, the expression in Sakusa’s eyes remaining inscrutable, he looked away. So did Atsumu.

“Sure thing, Bokkun,” he said. “Where to next?”

Bokuto considered for a moment. “There’s an all-night onigiri shop three doors down.”

“Not what I meant, Bokkun,” Atsumu said. “And how dare ya? This is an Onigiri Miya team.”

“If they have umeboshi, I’m in,” Sakusa added.

Atsumu threw his hands into the air, giving up completely.

Sorry, Shou-kun. I tried.

He stood up, the world briefly swaying around him in a technicolor swirl as they meandered into the city. They were entering that stage of intoxication where all they wanted to do was eat and lay down, which would not help them accomplish their goal.

“Hey,” the bartender called. Atsumu turned around to see him waving them over. Three steaming mugs of coffee sat on the counter in front of him, made available by the hand he gestured over the gleaming bar. Atsumu sighed and lifted the mug to his lips.

“Thanks fer this,” he said wearily. “Much obliged, ‘n all that.”

“Happy to help,” the bartender said. “Your missing friend. What did he look like?”

Bokuto rattled off a very complimentary description as Atsumu opened his Instagram again, showing the bartender the same picture from before.

“Yeah, he was here,” the bartender said after a single glance at the phone screen, interrupting Bokuto’s glowing description of Hinata’s toffee-brown eyes and sun-freckled cheeks.

“Holy shit, fer real?” Atsumu asked. “When? Where did he go? Did he say anything?”

The bartender frowned in thought, checking his watch and doing the mental math. “About an hour, an hour and a half ago? He came in, got a drink, sat on his phone for a bit–”

“That asshole, he’s not respondin’ to any of our shit!” Atsumu swore. The bartender raised his eyebrows, and he waved his hand. “Sorry, sorry, go on.”

“He was on the phone once or twice, but I didn’t catch anything he said. Eventually he hopped off his stool, paid his tab, and ran out.”

“Well, at least he paid,” Sakusa sighed. “Do you know which direction he went in? If there’s anything else open this late around here?”

The bartender shrugged. “Around here, it’s just late-night bars and cheap restaurants, and they’re all going to close up for the night soon. If you haven’t seen him anywhere else yet, I’m not sure where he might be. Sorry I couldn’t be more help.”

“You were very helpful,” Bokuto said. The caffeine already seemed to be perking him up, which was not necessarily a great thing when he was still very much inebriated. Contrary to popular belief, caffeine and alcohol did not cancel each other out. “We were heading that way anyway, so we’ll see if he’s there! Thanks!”

Their coffee finished and information obtained, the trio walked back into the open night. Atsumu peered at his phone and saw that it was already three o’clock in the morning. Bokuto was already halfway down the street heading towards the onigiri shop, visible only for his height and his shock of white hair.

“I’m going to get him a leash,” Sakusa said thoughtfully, his hands in his pockets as he meandered much more slowly by Atsumu’s side. “Just so we don’t lose him, too.”

“Might wanna check with Kaashi-kun first,” Atsumu mused.

“Why–?” Sakusa rounded on Atsumu with a squinty little scowl. “You are disgusting, Miya.”

“Ya knew what I was talkin’ about, though,” Atsumu countered, grinning widely. “I think that makes ya just as gross as me.”

Sakusa scowled, because there was no good response to that. Atsumu beamed his brightest, most shit-eating grin and followed after Bokuto. Only a warm, freshly-wrapped umeboshi onigiri was enough to wipe that slight pout from Sakusa’s lower lip. Atsumu, enjoying his tuna, pretended not to notice.

They sat for a few minutes, chewing their second midnight snack in sleepy companionship. Bokuto finished his onigiri first and was unwrapping a second one as he asked, “Where to next?”

“The hotel,” Sakusa muttered. “If Hinata’s dead, he’s dead. Nothing we can do about it now.”

He mused on that for another few moments in silence before his eyes went wide. Very slowly, like he’d just realized this, he said, “Oh, my God. He’s going to die one day.”

This struck Atsumu as an exceedingly morbid train of thought. “Are… are ya not?”

“No.” Sakusa’s expression did not change a jot as he took another bite of his umeboshi.

“Okay.” Atsumu, unsure if he was too drunk or not drunk enough to contemplate his mortality right now, decided they were going to sidestep that entirely. “Totally unrelated question, but how much didja have to drink again, Omi?”

“Enough.”

“Okay,” Atsumu repeated wearily.

Sakusa set his eyes on Atsumu with a distant sort of frown. “How drunk do I seem?”

“Uh. Pretty?” Atsumu guessed. Bokuto snorted into his second onigiri. Sakusa scowled.

“On a scale from one to ten.”

“I don’t fuckin’ know, a four?” Atsumu guessed.

“Okay.”

Atsumu, entirely exhausted and fed up with everything, threw the hand not holding his onigiri into the air in defeat.

“I miss Keiji,” Bokuto said sadly around his last mouthful.

“We know,” Sakusa and Atsumu chorused.

Atsumu finished the last of his food. “Maybe he went back to the hotel and got lost. We should check the train stations from here back to the hotel. We’ve got…” He dug his phone out of his pocket. After skimming his notifications to see if he had any missed calls from Hinata (he did not), he read, “... An hour and a half ‘til we gotta get to the bus.”

If this was a movie, what happened next would have been a Scooby-Doo-esque montage of their trio attempting to navigate the Tokyo railway system at the tail-end of the weekend bar crawl.

Traversing the big-city railway system was difficult enough for Atsumu in the best and most sober of situations. Trying to find their way through the stations with their multiple entrances and exits in the middle of the night when they were, conservatively, four sheets to the wind, was a fucking nightmare. They kept going down the wrong stairs, and up the wrong ones, and once or twice they lost each other in the crowd and ended up on opposite platforms with no idea how they’d gotten there. It was like trying to navigate an Escher painting on acid. One time, Bokuto thought he saw Hinata on the opposite end of the train platform, and only Atsumu’s quick reflexes grabbing the back of Bokuto’s hoodie kept him from attempting to jump across two train lanes and electrocuting himself on the third rail. Once or twice, Bokuto or Atsumu got off the wrong side of the train and ended up on the wrong platform, meaning they had to drunkenly attempt to navigate through unfamiliar train stations at four o’clock in the morning with the rest of the hungover partiers.

The third time this happened, Atsumu did not catch Bokuto’s sleeve in time. He did not realize his mistake until he was studying the unnervingly quiet platform and realized just why it was like that.

“Sonofabitch,” Atsumu swore. Sakusa blinked up at him with glassy, bloodshot eyes.

“What?”

“We fuckin’ lost Bokkun, now, too, Omi,” Atsumu swore. He looked over one shoulder and then the other, doing a full 360-degree spin on the empty platform. “Did ya see which way he went?”

“I didn’t even realize he was missing,” Sakusa confessed. “I was thinking about my bed.”

Well, wasn’t that a whole-ass mood. Atsumu sighed and pulled out his phone to call Bokuto when it started ringing in his hand. He answered it immediately. “Well, at least yer callin’, Bokkun.”

“Tsuuumuuu,” Bokuto wailed. “I’m looooost.”

“We noticed, babe,” Atsumu assured him tiredly. “Where are ya?”

A sniffle. Was Bokuto crying? Had he reached that stage of over-exhausted, inebriated, Akaashi-deprived misery? Atsumu wanted to sleep for about ten years after all this. He wasn’t sober-sitting any of these fools ever again. “I don’t knoooooow.”

So much for growing up here and knowing his way around. Sakusa was leaning his head closer to Atsumu’s shoulder trying to overhear the call; after a dangerous sway, Atsumu caught him on the sleeve to balance him and put the call on speakerphone. Atsumu asked, trying his best to be patient, “Can ya see a sign? How many stops did ya ride, and in which direction?”

“Just one,” Bokuto said. “I got off the last train and went… left, I think. Then I got off the train on the left side.”

Sakusa pulled away from Atsumu, his nose scrunched up in concentration. He started pointing his fingers like he was a crossing guard, mentally walking back Bokuto’s steps to decide where he’d ended up. A few fingers ended up pointing at the ground, the sky, and himself, so Atsumu wasn’t sure how helpful this was going to be, but it was endearing to watch.

“I think he went that way,” Sakusa said, pointing at the train line immediately in front of them. It was the only other line in this station. Atsumu wanted to kiss him on the mouth.

He glanced up at the clock above the platform. It said there was another train heading in Bokuto’s maybe-direction arriving in two minutes. “Well, we can find out.”

Into the receiver, he said, “A’ight, Bokkun, we’re on our way to ya. Don’t move, okay?”

“I’m hungry,” Bokuto said.

“And I’ll buy ya a big ol’ breakfast sandwich on the way to the bus if ya stay right there,” Atsumu promised, because if Bokuto wandered off into Tokyo right now he’d never be seen again. “If I lose ya I think ‘Kaashi-kun will kill me, and I’m a little scared of him.”

“Keiji,” Bokuto said wistfully as the train pulled up to Atsumu and Sakusa’s station. “I miss Keiji.”

“I know,” Atsumu promised, and he hung up the phone to lead Sakusa onto the train. It was late enough that the Saturday night crowds had mostly dispersed, meaning they had almost the entire car to themselves. Atsumu sat on the bench, his body so tired it was a little numb at this point. As Atsumu pulled his travel hand sanitizer out of his pocket, Sakusa dropped onto the bench immediately beside him despite the option to sit anywhere else.

“You’re not scared of me?” Sakusa asked, accepting the dollop of sanitizer and methodically wiping down his hands.

“Haven’t been fer years,” Atsumu told him. Sakusa’s icy glare had lost its power over him after perhaps his third month on the team, when he finally started to relax around all of them and occasionally even huff out a soft laugh at Atsumu’s jokes (only when he was pretty sure Atsumu would not see, because he did not know Atsumu was hopelessly attuned to his every move).

“I need to be scary again,” Sakusa said, mostly to himself it seemed. Atsumu knew he was pouting under that mask again.

“You were never scary,” Atsumu told him, a lot more fondly than he intended. “Just prickly.”

“I hate when you call me that.”

“What? When I call ya my prickly little sea urchin?” Atsumu teased, knocking his shoulder into Sakusa’s. “Ya know I don’t mean anything by it. I like ya just fine as ya are.”

Whoops; that was more than he’d wanted to say. Atsumu’s mouth finally snapped shut, too little too late, as Sakusa slowly turned to stare at him. The expression in his eyes was carefully neutral. Atsumu wished he could see more of his face, just to guess at what he might be thinking or feeling after that admission in the set of his mouth.

“Yeah,” Sakusa said slowly. “I know.”

Atsumu looked away to stare out the opposite window. He didn’t know exactly where he stood with Omi like this – the way he’d been tonight, this silly and spacey and open. He didn’t know this Omi. He wanted to, though. He wanted every version of Sakusa Kiyoomi he could find.

A warm weight fell against Atsumu’s side and shoulder. Soft hair brushed the underside of his chin. The scents of coconut, tequila, and cologne tickled his nose. Atsumu felt every muscle from abdomen to neck freeze up as Sakusa lay his head against him.

“Uh,” Atsumu started, which he thought was fairly eloquent considering the white static fuzzing up his head right now. “Ya good, Omi-Omi?”

“‘M tired,” Sakusa muttered. His breath over his collarbones made goosebumps erupt on Atsumu’s neck. “And you’re warm.”

This man was going to kill him and never realize he was the one holding the knife. Atsumu chuckled weakly. “How much didja have to drink tonight, Omi?”

Sakusa didn’t reply at first. For a few moments Atsumu thought he’d fallen asleep, but then he lifted a hand and started ticking off on his fingers. “Shot with Inunaki. Shot with Hinata. Shot with you. The Old-Fashioned. The Midori Sour. The whiskey.”

He scowled at his fingers like he could not understand why a sixth finger did not materialize. Atsumu stifled a disgustingly smitten laugh.

“So this is Six-Drink Omi, hmm?” Atsumu murmured. “We gotta come up with a name for ya.”

“Call me whatever you like,” Sakusa said wearily. “You always do, anyway.”

Atsumu studied what he could see of Sakusa – the slope of his nose, the moles over his eyebrow, his frizzy curls – and swallowed thickly. He could call Sakusa anything he liked, apparently, except his.

The train finally slowed to a stop. The doors in front of them opened, and Bokuto walked into the car with shadowed eyes.

“‘Tsumu! You’re here!”

Atsumu lay his head back against the glass with a thump and finally conceded defeat.

Thirty minutes later found the three men on the train heading back to the hotel. A bag of breakfast sandwiches sat between them that they were all slowly, miserably decimating as they accepted their second loss of the night and came to terms with Hinata’s untimely death. The sky was lightening to red and pink on the horizon as the three men stumbled off the platform and started walking to the hotel.

“Remember what we said a couple’a hours ago?” Atsumu asked wearily. “‘Bout Hinata goin’ ta find Kageyama? What if he did?”

“Doesn’t help much,” Bokuto said around a huge yawn. “If we don’t have a way to call him or any of the other Adlers–”

“Oh,” Sakusa said, as if this had just occurred to him, “I have Ushijima’s number.”

Atsumu did not reply at first, his sluggish, exhaustion-and-alcohol-affected brain slow to process that. As it finally did, he slowly clasped his palms together in prayer hands and lowered his head so the tip of his nose brushed the tips of his fingers. He inhaled slowly for a count of three, the way he’d practiced growing up with Osamu when he really wanted to deck his stupid fuckin’ face but couldn’t because they were in public (and/or with their mother). Finally, he looked up, pointing his still-clasped hands in Sakusa’s direction.

“Why?” Atsumu begged softly. His tone belonged to a broken man. “Why didn’t ya say that before?”

Sakusa blinked at him slowly with those beautiful, dark eyes and those beautiful, long lashes. Even after a night of running all over half the city, his eyes bloodshot and shadowed, he was beautiful.

“It was late,” Sakusa explained plainly.

Atsumu was going to cry or burst a blood vessel. He checked his phone. They were due at the bus in less than thirty minutes.

“I got the name fer Six-Drink Omi,” Atsumu finally decided in the ensuing silence.

“And what’s that?”

“Stupid Omi.”

“That’s a very hurtful thing to say,” Sakusa deadpanned. Atsumu was too tired to do more than chuckle wearily.

“Ya’ve been callin’ me stupid since ya joined the team.”

“Before then, really,” Bokuto said around a mouthful of egg sandwich.

“Thanks, Bokkun,” Atsumu said.

“It’s different when I do it,” Sakusa insisted.

“Oho, is it?” Atsumu asked. “How so?”

Sakusa pointedly ignored that loaded question. Bokuto, who thus far had been sleepwalking with his eyes open, wondered aloud, “What do you think Foster will do to us when we tell him Hinata died?”

“He’s not dead, he’s just missin’,” Atsumu reminded him again.

“Semantics,” Sakusa snorted. “And he’ll have us do flying fall drills like we’re in high school again.”

“Why would we do the damn drills?” Atsumu grumbled. His body filtered out the last dregs of alcohol from his system, leaving him finally feeling his sore muscles from their game, his sore feet from running around all night, and his impending dehydration headache. “Hinata’s the one who ran off into the city.”

“Because we’re the monster generation!” Bokuto weakly pumped his arm into the air as they rounded a corner to make their final walk to the bus. “We win and lose together!”

“There is no part of me that will willingly do flying falls with you for the sake of comradery,” Sakusa insisted, just as–

There really was no graceful transition into what happened next. Maybe if this was a movie, there would have been actual glimpses in time to show just where Hinata was all night and what he was doing. There might be some emotional musical swell as their paths at last reconvened, and the audience would be thoroughly charmed and delighted to finally see their plucky heroes coming together again.

What happened was this:

Atsumu, Sakusa, and Bokuto walked down the street when, happier than Atsumu had ever seen him (ever), Hinata Shouyou himself strolled out of the train station, wearing the same clothes he’d had on when Atsumu saw him last. Despite the eye-bags and pallor to his skin that told Atsumu he, too, spent a sleepless night in this city, there was a glowing flush to his cheeks and a sparkle in his eye that spoke of a night well-spent.

And he was hand-in-hand with goddamn goody-two-shoes Kageyama fuckin’ Tobio. Once they exited the station, Hinata, standing on the stairs so he was for once on Kageyama’s eye level, used the zipper of his running jacket to pull him into a deep, familiar kiss.

As one, their trio stumbled to a stop. Bokuto’s shoulders bunched up around his ears like an owl puffing up its feathers, his eyes and mouth rounding into perfect capital O’s; Sakusa’s expression went distant and dead-eyed again as their shared monumental stupidity slapped them in their collective faces; Atsumu thought he might cry from happiness for his friend or in frustration for himself.

What was it they’d wondered hours ago?

“Does he have any friends in the area?”

“Kageyama?”

“Is there anyone here he’d want to see?”

“Kageyama? He’s been in love with him for years, hasn’t he?”

Osamu was right: it was a good thing Atsumu was pretty, because he was a fucking dumbass.

Hinata and Kageyama at last broke apart, standing together for a few final moments in daybreak’s faint golden rays. Hinata muttered something to Kageyama that left him flushing and stammering. Finally, Hinata pressed a final kiss to his forehead – his cheek – his mouth – and jumped down the last of the stairs.

“Bye, Bakageyama!” Hinata sang cheerfully. “See you soon! Love you!”

Atsumu’s mouth fell open; Bokuto whispered, “holy shit.”

Kageyama ducked his head, the first true smile Atsumu had ever seen him make on his mouth. “Love you, too.”

Sakusa studied this exchange as if his entire world was currently being rocked. Bokuto repeated, “holy shit.”

Hinata waved to Kageyama and stood there for a few more moments, watching Kageyama as he went back up the stairs to the train. Once his back vanished from view, Hinata turned to the hotel and started walking to the bus with a spring in his step. He was even whistling.

“I’m gonna kill him,” Atsumu whispered through numb lips. “I’m really gonna kill ‘im.”

“You really can just…” Sakusa said, trailing off in the middle of the sentence. “Do that. Some people can just say that.”

“They can! It’s the best feeling in the world! You should give it a try, Sakusa!” Bokuto cried happily. He bounded on ahead, shouting his trademarked “OYA OYA OYA!” into the morning dawn and throwing his arm around Hinata’s neck as they frog-marched down the street. Atsumu and Sakusa watched them go, equally dumbfounded.

“Up all night runnin’ ‘round the city fer him, and he’s off neckin’ with Kageyama,” Atsumu groaned. “Disgustin’. He’s gonna be even more gross about him now. Didn’t even think it was possible.”

A pause. Atsumu jumped as an abrupt peal of laughter burst out of Sakusa’s mouth, his usual standoffishness burned away from the long night. He lifted the back of his hand near his mouth to try and stifle the sound, his face blushing red from the embarrassment, but nothing he did could hide the sparkle in his dark eyes. Atsumu’s stunned gape did nothing to help the situation as Sakusa caught his stare and broke out into another round of giggle-snorting laughter. It was, quite possibly, the best sound Atsumu had ever heard. He found himself laughing right along with him. They probably looked exactly as sleep-deprived as they felt, standing there in the middle of the sidewalk laughing like they had some kind of sleepover sillies. Atsumu just allowed the final currents of this long, strange night disconnected from their everyday reality to carry him back to safer, more familiar shores. Perhaps this night was enough, Atsumu thought as he watched Sakusa school his features back into their usual nonchalance.

“He is,” Sakusa agreed.

Atsumu sighed, wiping a wayward tear from his eyes. “Some people have all the luck, eh, Omi-Omi?”

He meant for it to come across as a joke, but in his exhaustion, it came out sounding honest and just a little sad. A little jealous. A little longing for something that he knew he could not have and yet could not stop wishing for.

For another long moment, they stood silently on the sidewalk. Sakusa did not acknowledge what Atsumu said, and he swallowed a wave of disappointment and wondered why he still hoped for this anymore. He took a step forward to make his way to the bus when Sakusa caught the sleeve of his t-shirt. He tugged faintly, a current pulling him in an entirely new direction. As if shocked at his boldness, Sakusa dropped his hand away as soon as he had Atsumu’s attention.

“Miya.”

Atsumu turned around. Sakusa’s mouth was set, his cheekbones tinting pink in the morning light. The rising sun cast yellow-orange light over his curls and brow. “Before this night is over, I wanted to do one last thing.”

“Uh… sure, Omi,” Atsumu said, confused. “Better do it quick, though, we only got ‘bout ten minutes before we gotta grab our things from the room.”

Sakusa hummed in acknowledgement. He twisted his hands together into unlikely pretzel shapes until Atsumu reached out and carefully pried them apart lest he dislocate something. Sakusa hissed in a sharp breath before he looked up to meet Atsumu’s gaze.

“Miya,” he started formally. “I am not doing this because I’m still a little drunk. I’m doing this because I want to, and the alcohol is actually stopping me from overthinking this as usual.” He thought for another moment before adding quickly, “Unless this goes badly, in which case I am drunk and this doesn’t mean anything and we should both forget it and never bring it up again.”

Atsumu blinked, totally bemused. Dimly, he knew that there might be something truly amazing about to happen, but he dared not hope for it. “I’m not real sure what yer talkin’ about here, Omi-Omi.”

Sakusa tilted his head at Atsumu, one brow quirked to his hairline. The corner of his mouth tilted up into a smile. “You’re an idiot, Atsumu.”

He stepped closer. Atsumu had a moment to think, wow he’s real close, wow he smells good, wow his hands are cold, before Sakusa’s fingers were cradling his jaw and his mouth was pressing to Atsumu’s.

Atsumu inhaled a short, sharp gasp against Sakusa’s lips, and Sakusa pressed his advantage, stepping closer and angling his head to kiss Atsumu deeper. Heat and feeling flooded into his body, starting in his stomach and expanding out to his limbs, and Atsumu finally realized holy shit this is happening and got the rest of his body on board. He reached up to slide his hands into Sakusa’s curls, carefully clasping them in his fists at the root, delighting in how soft they were as they twisted between his fingers. They were the softest thing he’d ever felt. His lips were the softest he’d ever kissed.

At last they parted. Sakusa went on, like they hadn’t just done that and changed their entire dynamic forever, and said, “But fuck, I am so into you.”

Atsumu’s eyes almost bulged out of his head. “No fuckin’ kiddin’!”

Sakusa rolled his eyes but did not pull away. “No kidding.”

“Omi-Omi,” Atsumu sang, leaning into Sakusa again until he felt his curls brushing his forehead. “I’m so into ya it makes me look stupid.”

Sakusa smirked. “I know. You’ve been a little obvious.”

“I should hope so,” Atsumu snickered. He did not know the meaning of the word shame, and he was not going to learn it now that it’d gotten Sakusa wrapped up in his arms. “Been tryin’ ta get yer attention fer years.”

“You’ve had my attention for years,” Sakusa said simply. “It’s been just the two of us for that long, hasn’t it? Why else do you think I had to kiss you to get you to figure it out?”

“‘Cuz I’m an idiot,” Atsumu grinned. Sakusa smiled wide enough it crinkled the outer corners of his dark, dark eyes, and he was still laughing when Atsumu kissed him again, and again, and again.

They ended up being late for the bus after all. If Atsumu awoke later that day feeling like someone was digging into his head with a railroad spike, and Foster gave Sakusa and Atsumu falling dive drills for half of their next practice, he did not mind. He didn’t even care. Because when he had his weekly movie night with Omi, he watched the movie with his head on Atsumu’s shoulder, his lemon-scented hair ticking Atsumu’s jaw. When he went to bed that night, he did not sleep alone (and they didn’t get much sleep at all.)

And when they awoke the next day, an all-nighter and a truly horrifying amount of alcohol leaving them with head-splitting hangovers that had them swearing off alcohol forever – well. That was okay. They had each other.